I will run cold through the arteries of this town
Divorced from reason
As a hollowed out ship
Once teaming with purpose

I will find a home of sorts
In the pitch-black sorrow of the restless
Who rove, with the seasons and tides

Having earned, the bite of the wind
The eons of marching
Dulled by an onslaught of lows

I’ll run cold through this town
When the search-lights die out
For a greater good, I’ll never fully know